


see what fits

by corduroy



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Definitely no smut, M/M, Not Fluff, and some angst?, bros, i feel kinda weird posting this, just a story about bros being vague and confused and bromancing around town, not really angst, okay maybe some fluff, yeah definitely some fluff and angst on second thought
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 11:45:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10696359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corduroy/pseuds/corduroy
Summary: it's easy. kind of.





	see what fits

**Author's Note:**

> hello!!  
> so this has been on my mind since november and it might be extremely unsatisfying and not really go anywhere but i finished it so i feel obligated to post since it actually graduated from my stockpile of unfinished nothings. there's no particular timeline to this but the euros and 2015-16 season do elapse. also full disclosure neither spurs nor england are my teams, i seem to never actually write anything about my team, so character judgements are based on observing quirky behavior during matches, those cute goofy interviews the teams put on youtube (anything with son will instantly make everyone smile go watch them for your happiness's sake), and social media posts, including eric dier's aesthetic black and white instagram which hes seem to have unfortunately broken these days. i apologize if i mess anything up! still feel kinda weird posting this, but here goes. unbeta'ed and you might wanna skip if incomplete sentences are your pet peeve ive got some in there. any feedback of any kind is very appreciated and always loved if you feel so inclined to do anything. thank you very very very much for reading and have a lovely day x

 

Dele experimented with the idea of experimenting. He wasn’t sure if he wanted some rando he would never see again or someone he knew well enough to stomach while sober. He figured he would wait until the opportunity came. That opportunity happened to be broad shouldered with butterscotch hair. And when he came, he scrunched his eyes tight and curled his toes.

 Yeah, no walking away from that one.

 ***

Dele smoothes down the envelope again, thumbing the contents inside. He tears the envelope away, crumples it, and tosses it beside the others. He picks up the note and reads it again.

  _Dear Dier,_

_Now you can be my homie, home-mie and hoe-mie all at the same time, anytime you want._

_Cheers,_

_Dele_

He almost tears it in half. Instead he crumples it up, then flattens the note between his palms and pulls another envelop from the box. Writes _Dier Wolf_ on the front and throws it in his training bag. It’s an awful way of doing this, but it’s better than stuttering his way through a full eye-contact conversation with the floor. And it’s much better than chucking the thing and running away.

 That could take an eye out.

 ***

“This is a key,” Eric says as he holds the metal between finger and thumb, inspecting it like a seagull with a shiny piece of trash.

 “To my heart?” Dele clowns. Dier doesn’t look up and Dele gathers his bearings. He’s grateful he can usually hide behind a bad joke and nobody would think too much of it.

 “And to my apartment. If you ever want to stop by, surprise me, need somewhere to stay, whatever.”

 ***

There’s no need for Premier League footballers to have roommates. With wages that makes his own eyebrows shoot up, Dele has no need to split rent. He does have a need for company, however, in the way that he can see someone all day at training, see him again in their spare time, and still remember things he forgot to tell him, wishing he could see him again. The key in Eric’s hand is an invitation, a steppingstone, a way for Dele to give permission without too many words to get lost in.

He likes a lot of things about Eric. He likes his strong presence in midfield, how his nose is kind of crooked, what makes him grin. But what Dele thinks he likes best is how they could laugh for a minute then slip into easy silence, no second thoughts.

 Maybe it’s worth it to see where it goes.

 ***

Having a bit of a wank together is no big deal. Everybody does it. Staying up or eating together is just camaraderie, partaking in some banter. Thinking about what it would be like with each other, they don’t do that, or at least they don’t admit to it. But they’re not naïve. They’re guys who like each other’s company, guys who would shag a girl together. Not much else to it. No need for digging around.

 ***

Eric thrusts the key towards Dele and drops it into his palm. “Thanks mate, but I don’t think I need one. Don’t think I’ll need a couch to crash on yet.”

Dele feels his cheeks grow hot and his eyebrows knit together. He expected an off the cuff joke or a jab in the ribs, not a plastic mask. His gut twists. _Why not?_ he thinks as a sweaty fist forms around the cold metal, a weapon ripping through the picture in his head.

 ****

Everyone knows that when Premier league footballers holiday in Ibiza or Bora Bora, they go with females. Usually these females look like they could be some kind of model; that’s part of the big league deal. Once the territory moves beyond spending time with a teammate a little too often, it’s unprecedented. There is the possibility life could carry on, but this is England and sports. Banter is in the blood and certain words always seem to find a place to sit regardless of how many rainbows are thrown around on the pitch, laced through boots, hugging captains’ arms.

 Such is life.

 God knows Dele’s not innocent.

 ***

They know, or are at least aware, that men can appreciate each other in many different ways.

 Many, _many_ ways. Might as well try them all.

 ***

Brothers.

He had called them brothers.

A steady step up from mate or bro. Dele could do that. For now.

 ***

“Dele, I’m not lying, I gagged. It was like balsamic soup. I had to pay for that. “

 “As bad as you at centre back?”

 This earns Dele a clap on the ear, followed by shared laughter. Dele likes that, too. Eric can laugh at himself. They lay back on their respective beds.

 “Hey, ever been to St. Tropez? I’m thinking about it after visiting Portugal.”

 Dele takes a deep breath. He knows it’s dangerous, desperate, but he can save his regrets for later.

 “Mate, my mind isn’t even there yet. Stretch me out?”

 His back is tense and flat to his bed while his teammate keeps on about salad greens and tropical coastlines. He grips Dele’s ankle and cups the back of his knee then gently eases into the push. The hands are somewhat rough against Dele’s skin, but warm and dry.

Dele feels the drop in his abdomen and the twinge down below. He kicks his leg away as it starts to well up in his eyes again. He tries to shove it all back down as he rolls over and groans into the pillows. Shit.

 “I didn’t hurt you, did I?” Eric mumbles above him, his voice laced with panic.

 “No,” Dele says into the pillow, shaking his head. This is ridiculous. He sighs and fucking goes for it. “I’ve been feeling weird about you, mate.”

 “What does that mean?” Eric sounds slightly offended. Dele grumbles again.

 “I really like you, man.”

 “Wanker, save it.”

 “I mean it. I really like you. In a weird way.”

 “Is that so.”

***

A hesitant knock splits Dele’s thoughts open. A click of a key turning.

 The nervous half smile breaks on Eric’s face and Dele reads between the lines on his forehead. “When’d you get that?” he says sleepily, trying not to tip Eric off to the hurricane in his head.

 Eric stands with his knees locked. He thumbs at some of the mess on Dele’s countertop. “Swiped it. Last week,” he mumbles, then rubs his eyes. “When I was here. We played Call of Duty.”

 “Yeah. I remember when we did that.”

 They both shuffle around, adjusting joggers and clearing throats.

 “What’s a weird way?” Eric says, loud enough to startle Dele to his feet. Their eyes lock and Dier smiles. He looks to the side. “Skip it. I’m gonna go get some food.”

 Dele watches him leave with the key then collapses back to the couch. “See you tomorrow, mate,” he sighs into the leather.

 ***

It becomes obvious when his first handshake doesn’t come off.

Dele slid a real bold one past Lloris so of course Sonny came bobbling over with his hand outstretched and ready for the real training. Dele proceeds to muck it up and make even more of a mess of every subsequent try. His attempts at nutmegs come spinning right back between his own ankles and nobody seems to be hearing his jokes.

 Dele hangs back after the session and yelps when a ball goes flying past his ear. A familiar bumbling chuckle rings out. One he hasn’t heard in what feels like quite some time.

 “I don’t get it Delboy,” Eric singsongs as he jogs up to Dele. “Your football has been excellent but your…Dele…ness is all over the place.” Eric’s eyes are bright but Dele looks away. He could play along now, but then again he could just keep playing along forever.

 “Maybe you know something about that,” he mutters and retrieves the ball before stalking past Dier on his way to the dressing room. Eric’s face pinches into a scowl as he keeps pace. His breath is heavy and his jaw clenches but he doesn’t say a word. Dele sighs.

 One can only aggressively pretend things aren’t weird for so long before feeling like a puppet. Dele finds it unnecessary. The alternating waves of normal ease and scripted play-acting are becoming distracting. They’ll share a joke then tense up, denatured. Each has his own thing on his mind, creates his own pressure, and both try too hard to force it. Sometimes Dele goes home feeling like Play Doh squeezed into fake spaghetti. Long showers can’t put him back together anymore.

 They reach the door and Dele turns but Dier grabs his shoulder and stares him dead in the eyes. “Stop frowning,” he says and drops his hand. Dele contorts his face into a grotesque smile.

 “Quit it,” Eric huffs and Dele snorts.

 “Me, quit it?” he spits out, moving his eyes to the ground. He’s only used that tone with Eric when accusing him of something dumb, something normal, like stealing his toothpaste or skipping a song. Eric shifts his gaze to the ceiling.

 “Dele, I started eating your olives. I started eating the olives from your salad. Straight off your plate. Because I like olives, and you don’t.” He lolls his head side to side as he speaks.

 “Please, Dier, no more about salad.”

 “Don’t you think, maybe, that’s a little bit too far? That maybe that’s a little too much like, you know? So when you come in with a key, start telling me about things that you feel that are weird…”

 Silence washes over them. Eric catches Dele’s eye.

 “Maybe it’s not a weird way. Maybe it’s just normal. How we’ve always been,” Eric mumbles. His face is flushed and his eyes can’t stop blinking. Dele nods. Eric parts his lips and starts again. 

“There’s different levels to things, right? Not everything has to mean something.”

 “Uh, sure.”

 “Some things, are just things. And that’s okay, right? That’s just fine.”

 “Just fine,” Dele echoes, and puts his hand between them. Deal, whatever. Enough of this.

 Dier smirks and reaches out to complete one smooth, firm handshake. Just business. Dele pictures Eric in a business suit and chuckles. Up close, his brow is heavy, his shoulders too clunky, and his hair can’t stay put. He looks like a kid who just wants to get back to playing football with his friends.

 Dele tries to pull his hand away but Eric yanks him back. He slides his thumb over Dele’s skin.

 “You’re hands are too smooth, Delboy, we ought to roughen you up.”

 “Your mum sure likes them,” Dele mutters before smiling up at Eric from a headlock.

 ***

They find themselves lying in the sand far from anything or anywhere that could possibly conjure up thoughts of Iceland. Or Leicester for that matter.

It’s dark out. Their backs are getting colder while their heels in the water are feeling warmer. 

“We should just do it,” Dele says, the sweetness of pineapple with just a twinge of vodka lingering at the back of his throat. The massive fruity mess had slid in front of them at the bar. They looked around through their mirrored sunglasses until the bartender pointed to a middle-aged woman tipping her Union Jack visor. It was all too good not to indulge. But now Dele wants to take his clothes off.

“Do what?” Eric hums but Dele has already sprung to his feet, swim trunks tangled about his ankles.

“You can join, if you’d like, but I’m fine by myself, really. You’d just be missing out is all,” Dele mumbles but Eric grabs his thin calf.

“Dele, sharks,” he slurs with hooded eyes and looks up. “You have swim trunks, why is your willy out?” he asks, abandoning his safety concerns.

Dele laughs. “Don’t you just want to be free sometimes?”

It’s corny enough to cringe, but Dier won’t remember anything in the morning. He pulls his shorts off but remains seated in the sand. Dele hauls him to his feet. “Just don’t drown, yeah?”

They step into the sea and immediately tumble over with a wave, “Dele, I’m a shark. Watch out,” Eric says as teeth graze Dele’s shoulder. They’re overrun with more waves and vodka giggles.

_Some things are just things, sure_ Dele thinks with his eyes locked on the nude blonde boulder attempting to sing the _Jaws_ theme beside him.

“I’m glad we’re friends” Dele says, taking advantage of his slightly more sober position. He hears the warmth in his voice and it soothes him to know it’s back.

“I’m the reason you’re alive, Delboy,” Eric sneers as he smoothes his hair into various shapes.

“No, just the reason I’m happy,” Dele retorts, the darkness and generous Englishwoman still on his side.

“I’m the reason your mum’s happy, too,” Eric shouts wish a splash and Dele’s laugh rolls all the way to his toes. The warm seawater hugs his skin as Eric drags him out to the shore to collect their swim trunks. With arms strewn over each other’s shoulders, partly just to keep themselves steady, they amble back to their quarters on a path paved by St. Tropez moonlight.

 “Balsamic soup and here we are,” Dele says back in their room and Eric gags a little. Dele can’t tell if he’s joking or not so he sits him down on his bed and starts toweling them off.

 They awake to blinding southern sunlight, blistering headaches, and a sea of sandy towels. Eric pokes his head up. “That woman should be jailed,” he says and Dele chuckles.

 “In 2020, we do it for her, “ Dele proclaims, shortly followed by a towel whipping his shins. Eric’s smile is soft but shines all through his body, from his stance to his eyes.

 If Dele could only pack up this feeling to London and plop it on Eric’s shelf, a souvenir.

***

A click of a key turning.

He steps in with strength, tosses his bag into the corner with the other sweaty training gear, and plops down on the too-soft sofa. He picks up the remote but Eric snatches it from his grip.

“Unlimited access to my home does not include unlimited access to my TV,” Eric chides and Dele mocks him. 

“Hey,” Eric says, turning Dele to face him. “Your idea of good TV is a huge problem. After a double I don’t need that kind of stress and secondhand embarrassment.” 

Dele holds his hands up in surrender and snuggles back into the cushions. “I pick dinner then. And we get popcorn,” he says and Eric yawns in agreement.

As they settle in for a rerun, their legs resting beside each other propped up on the coffee table, Dele looks around and lets it sink in.

Yeah, no walking away from this one.


End file.
